


Shatter

by velocity_times_2



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Skating, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Music, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gay Keith (Voltron), Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Keith (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Keith is a hockey player, Keith is a secret 2007 emo kid music-wise, Kosmo is a mutt, Lance is a figure skater, Later on: - Freeform, Lotor is a villain, M/M, Matt and Pidge are a pairs team, Minor Hunk/Pidge | Katie Holt, Mugging, National Hockey League, Pining Keith (Voltron), Space dad Shiro becomes hockey dad shiro, Violence, World Figure Skating Championships, bad pop music, figure skating, lance is homeschooled, they're in high school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-09-23 19:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velocity_times_2/pseuds/velocity_times_2
Summary: Lance has spent his entire life perfecting his skills at Altean Ice. It was one of the few rinks that focused solely on figure skaters, and it was glorious. But when head coach and co-owner Alfor dies, his daughter has to make money somehow.That somehow is the Legendary Lions hockey team.Now Lance is faced with ruined ice, pompous jock heads, and a particular hockey player who won't leave him to his peace, quiet, and private late night practices.Keith just wants a pretty boy to notice him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been skating my entire life, and this fic is my little labor of love. It all stemmed from me wanting to project my love for Jason Brown onto a young Lance, and here we are now.  
> This'll be a long one, so hold on tight!

          “I fucking hate this,” Lance proclaimed while dipping into a plié at the barre. His body went through the motions as his eyes tracked a pack of primary red jerseys dashing back and forth across the ice. Cones were placed sporadically and the team was carving hard lines into the ice while weaving through them. There was a white haired coach who dashed along with the team, his mouth moving with what Lance could only imagine to be a harsh flow of berating instructions. 

           Lance was in the second-floor ballet studio of the rink, giving him easy viewing capabilities of the hockey team ruining the ice below him. Ballet usually calmed Lance’s nerves and settled him in for a few hours of hard work on the ice, but today the calming capabilities were squashed by the idea of having to skate after hockey players. Again. “We’re going to do nothing but fall on our asses.”

           “Yup,” Pidge confirmed from the floor, folded over in the splits while her brother, Matt, pushed her shoulders down further, “and you don’t even have to worry about being dropped.”

           “I’d  _ never  _ drop you.”

           “Matt, you dropped me this morning when we were trying that new lift.”

           “That wasn’t on the ice though!”

           “It still hurt!” 

           “Guys!” Lance grabbed their attention back to him as he continued to stretch and warm up his muscles in the blessedly heated room, “We were talking about my distaste for hockey players.” 

           “You make it clear on a daily basis, dude,” Matt finally let Pidge up and lifted her to her feet without seeming to even think about it. They moved in such synchronicity it was frightening sometimes. That’s what happens when you’re siblings  _ and _ skating partners, Lance guessed. 

            Romelle pushed into the studio then, stripping away her hoodie and taking a spot at the barre without even switching into her ballet shoes. Her hair stuck up in places it shouldn’t, and she was out of breath when she spoke. “Lance complaining about hockey again?” she directed the question towards the Holts while she began her own routine of warm ups at a far faster pace than she should.

            Lance scoffed, “I just think it’s unfair that they get the early time on the ice  _ and  _ get to ruin it before we have to actually do more than just go,” Lance waved his hand around, gesturing to the practice ending below, “back and forth.”

           “Yes, Lance,” Pidge sighed, “we know.”

           “And they’re all such  _ dicks, _ ” Lance spat the word, finishing his final stretch and moving to go downstairs and begin lacing up so he could get on the ice as soon as Coran got the Zamboni off. The hockey team was filing back into the locker room that they had also taken over, so the giant machine was rolling its way out onto the ice, Coran steering it with one hand like always. 

            Romelle made a noise that was meant to be taken as anger as they left. It just sounded like a dog whining outside of a shut door. She hated warming up in the studio alone without anyone to talk to, and she complained about it every time she rushed in twenty minutes after everyone else.

           “Don’t be late then!” Pidge countered to Romelle, following closely at Lance’s back. 

           “Have you even talked to any of them... ever?” Matt asked, his footsteps thudding on the stairs. Lance had no idea how the guy managed to look so graceful on the ice for as loud as he was off of it. 

           Lance considered telling his friends about that one incident last year, right after he lost the national title because of an under rotation downgrade and he had spiraled and ended up places he shouldn’t have been in, but decided against it when they opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and were engulfed in the brisk environment of the rink. Dwelling gave you wrinkles, or at least his aunt had told him that it did. “Don’t need to,” Lance opted for instead, “I have an internal douchebag sensor.” 

           “I hope it’s better than your gaydar,” Pidge mumbled as she shoved him to the side with her shoulder, “because that one is seriously untuned.” 

* * *

 

           The world was spinning. An absurdly high-pitched sound was going off in his ears and he couldn’t breathe worth a damn. There was a vague memory of an entry to a lutz and then this. The too-bright fluorescents on the ceiling staring back at him and the heat from his skin melting the ice, soaking into his already-sweaty shirt. 

           “Fuck,” Lance mumbled, trying to regain his bearings when Pidge’s face swam into view and he locked onto her light brown eyes to get a grip back onto reality. She offered him her hand while saying something he couldn’t hear over the ringing that had barely died down in his ears. He took ahold of her fingers, letting her stupidly-strong upper body haul him into a sitting position. His ass was still cold, but that was better than his entire body seeping in the freezing temperatures of the ice. 

           “-ance,” Pidge’s voice finally broke into Lance’s haze and he squeezed his eyes shut to try and rebalance his life from the tilt-a-whirl it had become.

           “I’m okay,” he muttered, blinking up at her, Matt, and a few of the younger kids were staring down at him half sprawled on the ice. Lance looked up to give Pidge a smile and show her he was okay before she broke apart to work again when his eyes registered a block of red to his immediate right. Matt blocked his view by skating up to his other side, though, and helped him get to his still wobbly feet. The older boy kept a hand on his shoulder until Lance nodded at him that he was steady on his blades again.

          When he was finally to his feet, Lance whipped his head to the side too quickly for his recovering steadiness and his eyes locked with a pair of violet ones that belonged to the reason Lance was actually, seriously, seeing red. The black-haired guy was staring straight at Lance, boring holes into Lance’s chest and looking for all the world like he could have been concerned about Lance’s fall. The guy was clad in a team hoodie that looked like it had been worn to bits and was barely hanging on to his thin upper body. Lance shuddered slightly under the scrutiny of the gaze and the still melting ice on his back.  

           “Enjoying the show?” He shot towards the guy, brushing the snow that had crusted itself on his black pants away. His ears were still ringing slightly, but Lance kept his voice steady. Black-hair-old-hoodie said nothing.

            Lance broke from Matt’s gentle hold and skated towards the boards, ice spraying everywhere as he stopped a little too quickly for his brain to keep up with. Thank god his body seemed to still know what it was doing, and he didn’t go back down to the ice again. The guy just raised a brow and Pidge sucked in a breath from somewhere near Lance’s back, having followed him to the sidelines. “Seeing as it was one of  _ you,”  _ Lance gestured towards the team logo – a black lion with a silver mane – on the hoodie to emphasize his point, “who so kindly left a rut for me on the ice. I’m not surprised that you stuck around to watch me fall on my ass.” 

           “Lance,” Matt warned, voice low as the coaches who were overseeing a few of the younger kids’ practice began to make their way over to the commotion at the far end of the rink.

           “No, Matt,” Lance waved a hand at his friend and stood back up to his full height now that his head was done swimming and the ringing in his ears was almost gone, “I want to know why I’m being gawked at.” 

           To his credit, the black-haired guy looked shocked now that he had been caught so openly staring. His eyes were wide, but he kept them locked with Lance’s, taking two steps back before stumbling against the concrete bleachers, the bag over his left shoulder a distant memory as it slid down his arm. His lips were parted slightly, but he remained silent. “Well?” Lance finally asked, cocking his head to the side. Pidge’s hand was on his arm now, her fingers tugging at his shirt. For all her bravado around friends, she hated confrontation the most out of their little group.

           Just as the offending party was about to speak, his mouth opening to try and fish for words, one of the guy’s teammates strode up behind him from the direction of the locker room. His long hair was bleached silver white like their coach’s and was tied up in a sad excuse for a bun at the crown of his head. 

           “Quit gaping, Kogane,” the newcomer clapped the smaller guy on the shoulder and shook him, “you’ve never seen fags on ice before?”

           The rest of the team was beginning to trickle out towards the exit of the rink now too, some shooting looks across the ice towards their teammates. Apparently Lance had started a scene. 

           Pidge’s fingers tightened on Lance’s arm as he recoiled at that extremely specific choice of words. The black-haired guy – Kogane – seemed to be jolted out of his trance by the question from his teammate, an unidentifiable expression crossing his face before he let a shrewd smile take over in response. 

          Lance couldn’t find words to respond to  _ that _ , all of the bravery in his body ripped from him with one sentence from the sad excuse for a british accent he would have previously considered extremely attractive. Matt lunged forward from behind Lance to brace his fingers on the boards to Lance’s side, anger already spilling off him in waves, “You want to say that again motherfucker?” 

         “Language!” Allura reprimanded as she approached the grouping. She had finally dethatched herself from the gaggle of students who had all stopped to watch and see what was going on. In the time it took for Matt to look sheepish and apologize for cursing in front of all the children, the two hockey players were already shouldering through the door, laughter following them out. “What is going on here?” She finally asked and Lance turned at the sound of her voice getting closer.

         Lance glanced back and watched the hockey players disappear into the hot late afternoon sunlight as Matt stuttered through some type of response without revealing why Lance was pointedly not looking at anyone anymore. Lance wasn’t sure if it was to protect him or to keep from having to explain what the word fag meant to a group of eleven year olds. 

         Pidge hated conflict of any sort, but Matt would die before he let Allura stay angry at him.

         “Lance,” Pidge was still gripping his arm, swaying on her blades and her face had lost all of its usual pink coloring. Lance would have been doing better if someone had just slapped him. He was unsteady, unsure, and numb to the rage in his gut that he knew was valid but couldn’t figure out how to explain. Pidge was still talking but Lance couldn’t find the ability to remind himself how to listen.

        Instead of dealing with his problems, and telling Pidge that he wanted to go hide in a pile of blankets and possibly cry because yeah he was out, and yeah he was okay with who he was, but obviously had a problem with slurs that he didn’t like to acknowledge, Lance just pulled out of her grip and skated off. Pidge, the genius she was, stayed behind and let him get off the ice.

        He found headphones buried deep in the dredges of his skating bag, unused for years, shoved them in his ears, and didn’t talk to anyone for the remainder of his time on the ice. Which for Lance, was the first time that had ever happened. He usually stopped to help Kylie with her jumps and Aiden with his flexibility. The little kids that were always here on Tuesdays would always get him to end practice with a game of Lancey Says. Today Lance did none of those things. He skated and spun and pushed and pushed and pushed until his body screamed to stop and then he pushed some more until his calves were screaming and his toes cramped when he rubbed his feet down after taking his skates off.

       If anyone noticed he left early and maybe didn’t stretch out as well as normal, they didn’t say anything. Lance was thankful for that. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

           Keith felt like puking the entire drive back to his house. The only reason he didn’t is because getting vomit out of upholstery fabric sucked. The one time Rolo had eight buttery nipple shots in less than an hour was a strong testament to that.

           Shiro had another group to teach later that night, and Adam was still on his business trip in Germany, so the house was blessedly quiet and the lights were off when he dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. He didn’t bother flipping any switches on. It was August and the sun would be enough lighting until after dinner, anyway.

           Kosmo padded over to greet him, shoving his head into Keith’s thigh and letting out a deep groan.

           “Hey bud,” Keith let his hand run through the dog’s shaggy black hair and he threw him a treat from the jar on the counter as he made his way to flop face down on the couch.

           Perfect position to mope.

           Lotor was the furthest thing from tactful the world had ever seen. Keith knew a filter existed in the man’s brain, it was there, but it only came out when his father’s wealthy friends were tempting them with pulls on university boards and invites to expensive charity events. Keith never took his teammate up on those, but knew Lotor could be the most prim and proper guy on the earth if need be. He could have political debates that were civilized, could listen and look engaged and pretend that he was learning. But it was all a carefully crafted act, and Keith knew this from experience.

           Keith could deal with Lotor’s usual talk; escapades with various girls, graphic descriptions of blowjobs and sex and porn, showboating with expensive cars and yachts and Stanley cup tickets every year. Keith could deal with that. Keith benefited from the latter, actually.

           The other stuff? He could shut it out and rope it off in his mind and forget that he had ever heard any of the stupid stories and obvious exaggerations. He attempted correcting racial topics and knew enough about Lotor to steer his ‘friend’ away from actual conversations about homosexuality when they were alone or with the rest of the team out of pure self-preservation.

           This...

           This was different.

            He had been staring, yes. Gawking, sure. The guy was gloriously beautiful and Keith was… well smitten wasn’t a word he kept in his vocabulary but it just seemed right. Crushing. Falling. Whatever. He floated on the ice and the power that he was able to generate in that jump had been unbelievable. When he fell, Keith had actually been a little worried, and the little changed to a lot when the guy took a beat to get up. So yeah, Keith had been staring and he had been caught, and because he was a gay disaster he hadn’t been able to say anything in response to the sudden lash of anger that the guy had presented to him.

            And then Lotor called him a fag.

           A wave of nausea had Keith pushing off the couch and stumbling forward into the bathroom down the hall. He had barely collapsed on the floor before his pre-workout mix and protein bar were making their appearance again, stinging his throat on the way back up. Tears sprung to his eyes and he curled both hands into fists and half-heartedly pounded them on the tile as he heaved again. His body hurt, there was vomit in his sinuses, and everything in this one small moment in time was awful.

           Kosmo whined at the door that had been sucked shut by the air conditioner.

           Fag. Lotor had called the skater a _fag_ and all Keith had done was encourage it by going to his stock reaction smile and walking out of the rink.

           Keith was a terrible person.

           He should have said something, should have at least put Lotor in his place and told him to fuck off. Being Lotor’s so called best friend put him in the position to do that.

           He threw up again.

           Shiro was going to murder him if he ever found out Keith had been a bystander to _homophobia_ of all things. Of every little shitty thing his teammates did, this is the one-time Keith couldn’t find the balls to correct someone on.

            Another wave of self-loathing hit him. He stuck his head further into the toilet to retch again. Pieces of his hair were catching on his lips, saliva and vomit coating the ends from his hunched over position. He felt like he did after getting thrown into the boards during an intense game. Bruised, battered, and ready to throw more than just one punch to the asshole who had put him there. He felt like death, like he had puked out his soul and he was going to lay here for the rest of eternity in a puddle of depression and anger.

            It felt like hours passed while Keith sat with his head pressed into the cold of the toilet contemplating his existence. At some point Kosmo had pushed the door open and was now laying with his head on Keith’s knee. Not understanding that Keith had made a fatal error in judgement and was a terrible person, the dog kept trying to cheer him up and provide comfort. Keith didn’t deserve his dog.

           Keith hadn’t told anyone, never even explicitly come out to Shiro and Adam after everything that had happened with his dad when he found out. They knew, of course. How couldn’t they when they had taken him in after a particularly bad beating? It was nice to not have to say anything. He could still live in the little house of denial he had built in his brain after that about being gay. They wouldn’t push him to say something he didn’t want to. They understood, in the way Keith had always wanted to be understood. That’s why they all worked so well together.

           Shiro kept his home life private just because that’s who he was. He didn’t even have a picture of himself and Adam in the tiny office just out of the locker room they had taken over when they moved to this new rink. So of course, Lotor and the rest of their team were oblivious to the fact that their coach, one of - if not - the best hockey player in the country, was not only gay, but married to a man. They also were unaware of Keith’s sexual orientation as well, and that’s how he liked it. Plausible deniability for him and any other not straights on the team. Because he knew that the reaction would be far from horrible, it would be controlled by Shiro, it would be good. But. If all of the little comments added up to this: Keith having panic attacks, throwing up in the bathroom before Shiro got home with dinner, then what would happen if they found out and the comments were directed straight at him? Keith didn’t want to know. Couldn’t know, because he wouldn’t survive it. That, he knew for sure.

           It wasn’t often that he found himself here, but it was often enough that the routine of cleaning himself up and making it seem like he was tired just from another grueling practice felt automatic. He stood on shaky legs and took a gulp of water out of the sink. He made himself take three long deep breaths and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t want to see the wreck he knew he was right now. Pale skin, stark scar jutting out on his chin, bags under his eyes, puke in his hair.

            When Shiro got home two hours later, Keith was showered and in sweats, diligently working on a psychology essay at the kitchen table, all traces of the panic attack gone.

            What Shiro didn’t know kept Keith from having to talk about his feelings. Which in Keith’s book, was for the best.


	3. Chapter 3

          Lance was earlier than normal today, because Coran had sent him a cryptic _Be ten minutes early today_ text around noon and it had been eating away at the back of Lance’s mind since. It wasn’t like he paid much attention in classes anyway, but he couldn’t even remember if he had taken notes in his afternoon lecture today. Coran, who ran the rink and was Lance’s head coach, rarely texted. The last time he had was when Pidge had been practicing alone and broke her wrist in a bad fall and Lance had had to take her to the hospital because she refused to ride in an ambulance.

          So, Lance was worried.

          When he parked his old Prius in the parking lot, he saw that Matt’s old truck was already in its usual space as well. Weird. The Holts were always perfectly punctual, but never, _ever,_ early.

          He beelined to Allura’s office when he got inside and knocked three times, his stomach in knots. Was he in trouble for getting pissy with that hockey guy yesterday? He hadn’t really listened when Matt was explaining what happened and maybe they thought he had done or said something he didn’t. Lance could come off a little… strong. He knew that, but he also was going to stand up for himself if someone was getting ready to laugh him off. He had done enough sulking in his short time on earth, and he was determined to make this season different. He kept going over the events of the day before as he fidgeting outside the office.

          “Come in!” Allura’s sweet voice floated through the door and Lance opened it up and no.

           Oh no no no _no._

           Allura was at her desk, fingers steepled with Coran behind her like always. Pidge was seated on the couch, Matt perched on the arm next to her and standing against the far wall... were the two hockey players and their coach. The coach looked murderous, the almost-British one looked aloof and was staring Lance down like he was the one who had done something wrong, and the one called Kogane was hiding his face with long black hair and staring down at a pair of scuffed up old Vans.

           Lance went to turn away but Allura spoke before he could escape, “Lance, take a seat,” Allura gestured and Lance took the spot next to Pidge, who immediately grabbed his hand and squeezed. That couldn’t mean anything good. Pidge didn’t do casual touches, it wasn’t something that they - as an entire friend group - were good at. So Pidge, sitting close to him, playing with his fingers in her small hands, was making Lance more nervous than he thought he should be in the office of the one place he loved more than home.

          “It has come to our attention,” Coran began, eyes darting to meet with the hockey coach’s, “that yesterday there were some _things_ said that we do not tolerate in this rink.” Lance caught man-bun nudging black hair and rolling his eyes.

          Coran was still staring at the other coach and he kept staring until hockey guy started talking, “Slurs, or things that are considered slurs,” the coach cleared his throat and broke Coran’s eye contact to stare down his players, “aren’t something I tolerate. Ever. Especially not from members of my most successful team.”

          “We have been brought here to apologize,” unfortunate hottie said. Pidge was still cutting off circulation in Lance’s right hand. “I’m quite sorry you found my words offensive.”

          The room was silent for a moment, a pregnant pause is what Lance’s mom would call it. He wished she was here to say something for him.

          “Thank you, Lotor. _Keith_?” The coach prodded, his tone full of frosty malice. Like he knew he was digging under the already ashamed looking guy’s skin. Lance couldn’t help but feel that some semblance of this whole thing was personal to the coach like it was personal to Lance, Pidge’s opinion on his gaydar be damned.

          Kogane - black-haired guy - creepy starrer - Keith, cleared his throat and looked up through bangs to meet Lance’s eye, “I’m sorry.” The words were softly spoken, barely there over the music of the public skate thumping through the old and thin walls.

          “Lance, would you-“ Allura began but Matt quickly cut her off in a very typical Matt fashion.

          “What does Lance have to apologize for?”

          “Matt,” Pidge warned in her usually manner, voice low.

          “ _Matthew_ ,” Allura says his name with a tone of disdain that Lance only knows comes with a lifetime of dealing with Matt, “I was simply giving Lance the chance to say something, anything, in return.” Matt was silent with that, but Lance finally seemed to find his tongue.

          “What else is there to say?” He asked with a shrug of finality, squeezing Pidge’s fingers back once before standing from the couch and giving a tight-lipped smile to Allura and Coran. “I’m going to go start stretching now, see ya out there,” he patted Matt’s shoulder once before leaving the office, no extra looks towards the three hockey players standing there most likely pissed at his rudeness.

          Lance couldn’t find it in himself to care.

* * *

          When Keith had gotten home from school, he had planned on changing and running to the gym, working out, then running back home for the extra cardio. The team didn’t have ice time today, and he had to keep the fitness up if he wanted to prove to Shiro he was captain material for this season.

          What Keith had not planned on, was Shiro waiting for him at the kitchen island, shoulders back, arms crossed, and a look of disappointment on his face. If there was one thing Keith hated, more than anything else, it was _that_ look on Shiro’s face.

          “I just got the most interesting call from Allura,” he spoke plainly, like Keith should know who that is and why it’s important. “She runs the rink, one of her skaters had something very interesting to say about you and your buddy, Lotor. You should probably get in the car.”

          So that had led to the car ride over to the rink, Shiro sitting in fuming silence next to him, and into the tiny back office Keith didn’t know existed. It led to the guy who had lunged at Lotor over the boards and the tiny girl who was apparently his sister on the couch when Shiro marched him and Lotor - who had met them there - into the office. It had led to silence and uncomfortably warm air from the heater until Lance had walked in and then it was over, he had been the last to arrive and the first to leave and now Keith had to face the thing he was actually worried about here - a disappointed and angry Shiro.

          “What the fuck, Keith,” Shiro sighed after making Keith sit in the car in the parking lot of the rink for five minutes before he spoke. A school group was leaving the public skate and filing into a bus. Keith watched the middle schoolers file out instead of looking at his friend and guardian. “I cannot believe that you-“

          “I didn’t do anything,” Keith defended himself, his voice still soft even though he knew he had nothing to be anxious about anymore. He had apologized. Shiro huffed and let his head knock back against the headrest. It felt like he and Shiro had regressed four years, back to when he had first taken Keith in and was picking him up from the principal’s office for starting - and usually finishing - fights of any and every nature.

          “Like hell you didn’t.”

          “I didn’t utter a word!”

          “Keith,” Shiro’s voice suddenly dropped, softening and Keith knew that Shiro was staring at the side of his head with that brotherly look in his eye. Keith kept looking forward at the school bus, watching it pull out of the parking lot. “Sometimes not saying something is worse than being silent.”

* * *

 

          Lance is done with Pidge’s looks. For someone so tiny, her stare weighs him down. He can feel her tracking him now as he pivots once, twice, pushes of the ground, twists in the air and lands solidly on his right foot. Seeing him land the triple loop seems to satisfy her little worry-wart brain and she goes back to paying attention to Allura’s attempts to get her and Matt’s side-by-side spins to synchronize better for their new long program.

          Lance is grateful to not be stared at for a minute, and just takes a breath, the frigid air catching just slightly in the back of his throat like it always does after he pushes and pushes and pushes himself through two-hour practices. The exercise induced asthma only acted up when he was stressed and pushing his body too far. He knew he had an inhaler in his bag, but didn’t feel too much of a need for it.

          The conversation in Allura’s office had been uncomfortable. The silence in the ballet studio after it all had been worse. Lance knew freezing out his friends wasn’t the way to deal with this problem. Part of his brain told him that he should just sit them down tonight during their study session and lay it all out on the table. The story raw, unedited, in all its horrific glory. Why he hadn’t responded to their texts after nationals. Why his mom had called them thinking he had been sleeping at their house all week.

          The other part of his brain just kept giving the middle finger to the world and chants ‘fuck you.’

          The thing that sucks is that Lance is usually so good with emotions. They come naturally to him, and being a sibling means he learned at a young age how to deal with and monitor them. He knows how to identify the bad emotions and how to healthily deal with them in a way that isn’t so detrimental to his long term friendships, yet here he is; cut apart and bleeding out just because some guy called him a slur he has bad memories of. For stupid, stupid reasons. It isn’t even relevant to his life anymore.

          It’s like he has the emotional capabilities of his youngest siblings, who are just now learning to grasp the concepts in the movie _Inside Out._ He keeps putting a bandaid on the problem, and this time the bandaid means pouring himself into preseason work and choreography. It’s a good bandaid, he thinks. A productive one, at least.

          Lance sips at his water, stretching out his neck and surveying the rink around him. The rink, even though their little Ohio town is small, is always crowded after school for figure skating practice. Allura typically corrals the young kids and keeps them out of the way of the more advanced skaters while still keeping a critical eye out for them making mistakes. Like mistimed spins, on Pidge and Matt’s part. It’s a good system that took them a little time to figure out.

          For a while it was impossible for the high-level skaters to do anything for fear of chopping a shorty’s head off with their blade going into a flying camel spin. Allura and Coran had come up with the current system when Lance was just learning his triple axel and it had been smooth sailing ever since.

          Today, however, is mass chaos. Allura had added a ‘learn to skate!’ class because another one had been cancelled due to Memorial Day, so the last hour of figure practice has small children watching in awe as the big kids glide and jump while also learning how to do snowplow stops. Or at least, that’s what should have been happening.

          Lance doesn’t have a clue what hell raising substance these children consumed, but he hopes it is never found again. In the time Allura took to work with Matt and Pidge - probably less than two minutes - the wobbly kneed children make their way out onto center ice. They move in a pack in the blink of an eye and when Lance actually blinks they fucking _scatter._ Giggling, they clasp hands and vehemently ignore Allura’s calls back to their own little corner of the rink behind the cones. It would be funny if it wasn’t downright terrifying having a bunch of munchkins running underfoot.

          Romelle, bless her blonde soul and quick thinking, bails out of a flip jump and changes it to a Russian split in a moment of sheer brilliance that should have been on tape. She does not, however, stick the landing and goes down hard on her knees, but the kid kept his head and isn’t sprawled across the ice guillotined by a just-sharpened blade, so there is that. Lance would be impressed if he wasn’t already rushing over to pick up two little girls who had fallen and were crying. When he was halfway to them, a boy with a mop of red curls darts in front of him with no awareness for his surroundings and in an attempt to _not_ knock a child over, Lance ends up falling flat on his face and scraping his chin against the ice. He lays there for a moment, knowing that he’s going to have a nasty red mark for at least a week.

          This day just keeps getting better and better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so so much for reading and commenting! I appreciate each and every one of you! <3


	4. Chapter 4

           Keith needed _away._

           Away from the house, away from the noise of the news on the TV and Adam’s head on Shiro’s shoulder and every little thing that made him feel unwelcome here.

           It had been four years since he had moved in with Shiro, three since Adam had moved from Chicago to marry Shiro, and barely a year since they had moved out of a townhome and into this actual house in an actual suburb. But Keith still felt out of place. Like he was an unwanted addition to their little family in moments like this when Shiro and Adam looked so domestic and in love and wonderful.

          Newlyweds shouldn’t have to deal with a teenager that one of them picked up off the curb (literally) like an abandoned puppy.

          Shiro and Adam never made Keith feel unwanted, it was actually the opposite. They loved him. He knew that as a full and complete fact; Adam helped him with his trig homework and Shiro was the best older brother a guy could ever want. It was an ideal situation, given the cards Keith had been dealt in life.

          But.

_But_ his brain still told him otherwise and that made him pissed off. Pissed-off-Keith was a Keith even Keith didn’t want to deal with.

          “I’m going to….” Keith’s voice trailed off as he fumbled with Shiro’s keys and worked the old, greening key for the rink off them, “uh, I’m going to go to the gym.”

            Keith was glad the two were a room over and couldn’t see his offending flush.

           He could probably get in a lot of trouble for going to the rink when it wasn’t open, with a stolen key of all things. But yeah, he was going to anyways because Keith sometimes lacked full-on common sense, and he had come to terms with that at thirteen years old when he may or may not have picked a fight with a guy four years older than him.

           “You sure? It’s pretty late,” Shiro leaned his torso off the couch so he could look around the archway to Keith in the kitchen.

           “Yeah, I need to blow off some steam.”

           It was a weak lie, but one Keith knew Shiro would believe it. Shiro had been the one to make Keith start punching bags instead of people when he felt anxiety spike deep in his gut. So Shiro nodded at him and gave him a cursory, “Be home by midnight, or else I’ll get in trouble with Adam, which means you’ll be in trouble with me.”

            Keith heard Adam smack the back of his husband’s head. Shiro laughed and turned back to the television as Keith locked the door behind himself.

            When he pulled into the parking lot of the rink ten minutes later, he could see light in between the cracks of the doors. Maybe the evening crew forgot to turn them off. It wouldn’t be something he’d remember to do every time, at least. He unlocked the door, dropping his bag three times in the process due to the old as fuck lock sticking and not turning over.

            He opened the door and was assaulted by the too-happy beats of some Christmas carol and what the _fuck_ it was September third.

            There was a figure already on the ice, in tight black leggings and a baggy navy hoodie that had been chopped up so it hung off his right shoulder. He was doing that strange thing Keith had sometimes seen the figure skaters do where they moved their arms in weird little jerks. Shiro had said it was to work on choreography once when Keith had been staring. How Shiro knew anything about figure skating was beyond Keith’s depth of knowledge.

            Okay then. He wasn’t the only one to come here late.

            The figure turned back towards the doors and of _fucking_ course _._

It was the guy…. the one who had fallen the other day and who Keith had been forced to apologize to two weeks ago and now he was here. Staring at Keith. And looking like he was about to take off his skates just to chuck them at Keith’s head out of spite.

            It had been Keith’s plan to never speak to.... Logan? Again. That had been the plan, because the whole situation of Keith being caught staring at this incredibly attractive individual, then having his friend do the whole fag thing, then the apology, had been a less than ideal way to deal with a newfound crush. _Now this._

             Now there’s a guy with collarbones and tight pants staring at him as if he kicked baby animals for a living. He wanted to die; to sink into the rubber matted floor of the rink and never be seen by a living person again.

            “Private ice usually means one person in the rink,” Lance - that’s his name, yeah - growls, standing in the dead center of the rink with one toe pick shoved deep into the ice to keep him in place. His arms are crossed across his chest and he moves an eyebrow upwards in a challenge while Keith just stares. Again.

            Frosty the Snowman starts up on the sound system, and if this is the song Keith dies to under the stare of a hot guy? That would be the way the universe would decide he would go, that’s for sure.

            And because he liked to punish himself and liked to piss people off just as much, Keith opens his mouth and lets it say the first thing that comes into his head, “Didn’t say anywhere that you got the ice after close.”

            “If you know the rink closes at eight, then _why_ …. and more importantly _how_ are you in here?” Lance stood his ground, twisting his toe pick deeper in the ice. Creating a nice little pothole for Keith to trip on tomorrow.

            “I have a key.”

            “ _Bullshit,”_ Lance said, unfolding his arms so he could point a finger at Keith, “I’ve been skating here for twelve years and I just haggled my way into a key."

            “Well, I have a key,” Keith shrugged his shoulder and threw his bag onto the bleachers so he could dangle the keyring at Lance before starting to yank out his skates. Lance huffed at his back.

            “This is still private ice, regardless of you having a key or not.”

            “You should turn off the Christmas music,” Keith told him in a non-related response as Mariah started to croon over the speakers to follow up to Frosty. He heard skates carving into the ice and the music cut off right as the tempo started to change.

           “Now maybe you can hear me more clearly,” Lance sounded like he was directly behind Keith now, so maybe there was an aux cord near the ice after all, Shiro was a liar. “You need to go. Away.” Keith kept ignoring Lance because right now he could not, in any world, deal with this guy right now. He just needed to channel whatever anxiety or aggression his body was brewing like a storm into the ice. He needed to forget about attractive guys and shitty apologies and even worse stand-ins for friends.

           “I _said,”_ and then a hand was wrapped around Keith’s upper arm and turned him towards Lance but the thing was, he wasn’t expecting it so he yelped like Kosmo did when his tail was accidentally stepped on. In turn, Lance jumped backwards, hitting the open area on the boards he had just stepped over, and _oh shit_. Keith had caused this guy to fall.

            Again.

            Only this time it had been definitely Keith’s fault.

          Lance, being fucking tall as hell, _goddamn_ , had lost balance falling backwards and toppled over the boards and down onto the ice with his legs stuck in the air; a tangle of limbs and blades. Keith’s want to sink into the ground is rekindled at the sight. Because _why him?_

          “Are you okay?” He asked, staring down at the fawn-haired boy and grimacing, starting to make his way towards him in an attempt to help.

          “Pft, am I… am I okay?!” Lance was scrambling against the ice, trying to untwist his insanely long limbs and right himself, “Do I fucking look like I’m okay? With you waltzing in here, and then pushing me and tripping me and making me fall _again?_ Twice in the same month? What the hell did I do to you?”

          “I did not push you, you tripped,” Keith pointed out, bristling at the accusation, his instinctive fight response revving into gear.

          “As if! You did that on purpose!”

          “Why would I push you, the guy who snuck up on me and scared me, onto the ice over the boards? Literally why would I ever want to purposely hurt you, a person I don’t know?”

          “Maybe you hate me as much as I hate you.” Lance said plainly, finally up on his feet again and staring Keith down with cold blue eyes and messy hair. Okay, what? Hate? Did Keith not remember something or was he just not in on the joke?

          “Why in hell would I hate you?” He was able to spit out, hand still holding his left skate and the eerie silence now settling in over his bones. He didn’t like how still it was in the rink now that it was not filled with people or music and he had someone looking at him with all the intensity of a forest fire.

          Lance looked at him, looked at him with a stare that could burrow holes into his skin if it was left on him for too long because of all the heat he held in his eyes, and all he did was raise one eyebrow, just enough to change his entire expression, “Really?”

          “I… uh, yeah?” Keith could feel the back of his neck heating up even though the air in the rink was biting through his loose jacket. He never did well with people, and he felt like he was grasping at nothing in his confusion.

          “I don’t know, but maybe it has something to do with what you and your haughty little friend had to apologize for? And how you seem to take great joy in watching me fall on my ass?”

          “For the records, all of them, I don’t hate you, did not push you, and am here just to skate. That’s it,” Keith held up his hands in defeat before shoving his skate back into his bag and grinding his teeth instead of yelling or doing something he knew he’d regret. It wasn’t a good habit, and his dentist always had to repair his fillings, but if it kept Keith out of fights, he was okay with the higher insurance premium. “But since you find this rivalry so goddamn important, I’ll just leave you to your… early Christmas celebrations.”

          “I’m choreographing for the Christmas pageant,” Lance said, explaining himself, “I have no clue why I care that you know, but I’m not insane.” Lance’s arms had dropped to his sides and he looked slightly less defensive in lieu of complete and utter confusion. At least Keith wasn’t the only one trying to figure this all out anymore.

          “Well… have fun?” Keith hated when his voice did that, decided things were questions when they were trying to be plain facts. But that’s what it did whenever he was nervous. He felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin under the other boy’s stare and just had to get out. Away. It was like he was back to square one in the kitchen all over again.

          “I… will?” Lance was tapping his toe pick on the ice, a sound that made Keith’s skin hurt. “So you’re leaving?”

         “Yup.” Keith said to get himself out of the situation, out of the rink, just away. He gripped his hockey bag with slightly shaky fingers and fled out the door, thankful for the warm air to quiet his shivering skin.

* * *

 

          Lance was baffled. Purely baffled. He had been expecting Keith the hockey dudebro to puff his chest and act like an ass and force Lance off the ice. What Lance had not been expecting was for Keith to now be walking out the doors to leave him back to his Mariah and bunny hops.

          Huh.

          How about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in Lance's (my) skating playlist, you can give it a listen [here! ](https://open.spotify.com/user/1261505315/playlist/6mfj0dWZrWz3DfgZiyAW0T?si=UD-Ha9d9Sh2y0cYWci7eHg)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, I know I dropped off the face of the earth. I'm so so sorry. I got caught up putting in work on my Shatt Big Bang fics and haven't been posting this one. I've also been spending a lot of time on the ice myself! Which is great but means I don't write as much.   
> Sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy this chapter :D

          “I’m telling you!” Lance exclaimed, not even bothering to posture stretching today, his news too important to be told while in motion, “He shoved me down onto the ice!”

          “Kinky,” Matt was the one on the floor this time, Pidge sat on his back and rocking side to side in an attempt to make it pop.

          “Matthew, Lance here is telling us important news,” she chided, but her tone is anything but caring, “the hockey player infiltrated Lance’s inner sanctum of Christmas. Christmas, Matt!”

          “You guys,” it felt like he wasn’t being listened to and Lance was now desperate, “I swear it was so weird.” Lance hadn’t stayed at the rink much longer the night before, mind too disorderly to actually get any more choreography done. The entire interaction had seemed almost dreamlike in its oddness, but the bruise on Lance’s hip from the topple over the boards was enough to solidify the entire thing in reality.

          “What did he say to you? Did he…?” Matt rolled over, Pidge squawking as she was unceremoniously unseated and fell to the side and onto the polished wood studio floor. Matt was giving Lance the Best Friend look that he had gotten proficient in over the years. Lance knew he meant verbal beratement, and now the confusion from the night before was back in full force, because that was what Lance had been expecting too.

          “Actually,” Lance plopped down on the floor next to his friends and they watched as he ran his fingers through his fringe and tugged, “he said…” When the words didn’t come out Lance grunted and started over, “I said that I hated him and that just seemed to confuse him?”

          “So your douchebag detector is just as bad as your gaydar?” Pidge asked having righted herself and filled the space between Lance and her brother to complete their little triangle.

          “No!” Lance feels a spike of indigence, “I didn’t say he was not a douche, just that he was confused about his own douchiness. I guess? He pushed me down. He’s defo a douchetool.”

          “Lance,” Pidge was giving him her best impression of his mother, “that could be becau-”

          “Are you really defending the guy who called Lance a fag? Actually,” Matt made a motion that was meant to indicate all three of them, “I’m pretty sure was meant to insinuate that we are all gay. But that’s besides the point. Those guys deserve no sympathy from this room.”

          “Of course not, I would never defend that,” Pidge reached out her fingers and placed them on Lance’s knee, knowing that small touches grounded him and always sure to do it when she knows things could possibly upset him, even though it wasn’t something she had been comfortable with before. She was a good friend to him, always had been since they all started at the rink together years and years and years ago. “I’m just saying that the black haired one never actually, ya know,” she turned her gaze towards Lance now, “spoke. That day.”

          “He still-”

          “Yes Matt, he still let it happen, but it wasn’t like he was joining in. I’m just saying, people think we’re all stuck up bitches. Maybe we shouldn’t judge everyone by what they do?”

          Lance shared a look with Matt.

          “Kids at school say something about you being a science nerd?” Matt asked with all the softness of a full-grown cactus. Lance knew Pidge well enough that that was where his brain had immediately jumped to as well, but he wasn’t as vocal with every thought that popped into his head as Matt was.

          Pidge always got introspective when other people poked fun at the glasses she had to wear to read or the fact that even though she was fifteen, she had to go to the college down the road to get any sort of science class that challenged her. How she weighed barely ninety pounds soaking wet with skates on. It was something Lance was always impressed by, how instead of folding in on herself like he did under any sort of scrutiny, Pidge just reminded herself that maybe they shouldn’t be judgmental about others when it’s just ‘perpetuating a system.’ Matt usually could see through her confidence, though, to the fact that that was the one way Pidge dealt with her insecurity. She wasn’t fond of how Matt always pointed it out, either.

          “I’m never trying to speak to you two again,” Pidge got up and moved across the room where Romelle had been in her own world with headphones on and facing the other wall, “I’m going to finish stretching over here and ignore your existence completely.”

          “Love you Pidgeon!” Matt yelled after her. All he got in return was a middle finger.

* * *

 

          When Shiro panics, Keith panics. It’s an antibiotic relationship and neither of them can ever get anything done when it happens. If for no other reason than his rational mind, this is what Keith is thankful for Adam for.

          “Babe,” he tells Shiro, hand on the other man’s cheek and looking between Keith and Shiro like they are feral cats to be tamed, “both of you need to calm the hell down. Keith? Why don’t you run over to the rink and grab get the playbook off of Takashi’s desk so he can work over things in the morning?” Keith nods at Adam, car keys already in hand. As he’s shutting the door he hears Adam shushing his husband in soft tones as he steers him towards bed.

           As long as Keith had known him, Shiro had had these sorts of flighty fits at the beginning of the season. His team wasn’t fully fleshed out, or they hadn’t done enough off ice prep, or or or. The first time Keith had witnessed it, he had been frightened and that was probably why Shiro’s anxiety still made his spike so much. Shiro had always been this face of calm, cool, collection that showed up at practices right after Keith and gave him pointers on the weekends. The year after Keith moved in, Shiro had taken over the Lions as head coach and had panicked that he wouldn’t be able to uphold their strong presence in the division.

            All of those worries had been squashed when the team went the whole season undefeated, but each new year Shiro fretted and tugged at his white hair and Adam had to silence and coddle and make eggs benedict the morning of their first game to get Shiro to settle in and do what he did best - share his winning tactics with his team.

            Keith felt lucky, being a part of that team, getting to play under his now almost lifelong mentor and adoptive brother/father figure. Not only had he come out of the situation with his dad a surprisingly better person, he had become a better athlete as well. With the scholarship lineups to prove it.

            The air had finally started to chill, so Keith rolled down the windows of his - Adam’s - old jeep and let the brisk fall wind crash against his skin. The back roads he took to the rink were always quiet at night, usually only filled during the days by soccer moms carpooling kids hither and yon. Keith played his music too loud, letting the bass and slamming cymbals take over his pounding heart and quiet his nerves.

            This time, he didn’t notice that the crack of the door to the rink was illuminated, he was still too into softly bopping his head and singing the chorus of the song that had been playing as he shut off the car. Without even realizing he was doing it until it was in his hand, he grabbed his bag with his skates and his sticks from the trunk.

            If Adam was putting Shiro to bed, then maybe Keith could get away with being out past curfew and getting a little extra practice in before the game the next day. It wasn’t like he was out tagging stuff with spray paint or shoplifting from Wal-Mart, he was getting in extra ice time for doing a favor. That was fair, wasn’t it?

            The classical-sounding music that was playing in the rink was a shock to Keith’s ears after the assault from the barrage of old punk he had been listening to on his way here. Even though the music was loud, Keith could hear the crunch of figure skates carving out strong patterns in the ice. The way the music pounded though, it had to be some sort of movie soundtrack, ebbing and flowing and seeming to carry Lance through the program.

            Lance was pure power as he moved to the music, long limbs creating lines of elegance on the ice. This wasn’t like anything Keith had ever seen before. He didn’t make a habit of watching figure skaters, but this guy had to be the best, right? The way the music worked with him, wrapping around his body and flowing over the ice with him was stunning.

            This crush was getting out of hand.

            The music came to a crescendo and Lance finished with a spin that would have made Keith motion sick and puke, and even though his chest was puffing with labored breath, the other boy shook his head and put his hands on his hips shaking his legs out and meandering forward on the ice. Somehow, he was so trapped in the routine that he had just performed that he hadn’t noticed Keith there, watching.

            He should say something, he really really should say something and not keep standing here like a stalker just watching. Lance fumbled at the boards with his phone and new music began to fill the rink. Something with a deep bass and a poppy undertones. Lance kept his eyes down on the ice, rolled his shoulders and stomped the gathered ice off his blades. He leaned forward and pounded his fists into the muscles of his thigh.  

            Keith felt antsy, and not just from the anxiety and preseason jitters. His skin suddenly felt too tight and even though the air in the rink was at its regular iciness, he felt flushed. He couldn’t find a word for a damn except a slightly broken, “Hey.”

            Lance whipped around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Keep Me Watching" by Jason Walker is the new theme song for this fic, you should def listen to it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the lack of updates - I've had family here and work has been a doozy lately but I'm back and committing myself to finishing my stories.   
> I'm considering reworking some of the plot lines in this story though, so if I were to rewrite and clean some stuff up would you guys prefer to reread or me to post a separate "update" with any changes?

          The free skate was coming along, the components were there and the music was great. Coran had outdone himself with the choreography this year, giving Lance music that made him make himself mature and steps to match it. But it still didn’t feel _his_ yet.

            His timing was off in the entry to the first jumping pass, and even though his flexibility had improved with all the extra training he had thrown himself into over the summer his spiral was still too low when he caught its reflection in the mirror. This year had to be grand, and it just wasn’t yet. 

            Also, he was horrifically out of shape. One run through and his knee was already giving him issues? He was already pre-planning the timing of another steroid shot in the middle of the season to keep him on his feet. He shook out the bad leg, trying to shake off the feeling of fatigue so he could keep working on the tricky entry Coran had set up for his quad sal.

            The jump was there, Lance knew he could land it, but the fact that he was alone on the ice with no one even remotely close made him choose to downgrade himself to triples for the time being. He queued up the playlist Matt’s friend Hunk had made him the week before of new stuff he ‘had to listen to while you’re skating, man. This stuff is right up your alley.’ Just as the song began a voice rang out of the stillness and Lance almost actually peed himself in fright.  

            “Hey.”

            Keith.

            Lance had been thinking about him a lot lately, after Pidge’s little spiel in the studio. _Why do you think I hate you?_ Had played over and over and over in his head. While he showered, during his morning run, in the middle of a quiz on _Brave New World._ Pidge had gotten in his head and made him think about hockey players and emotions that were confusing.

            In Lance’s world, things were black and white. You either rotated your jump completely or you didn’t. You were liked or disliked. You were pro pineapple on pizza or anti. You were normal or the figure skating gay guy who went to yoga at six in the morning and hung out with two guys who had already graduated high school and a child genius two years younger than you. You had the potential to be the aforementioned gay figure skater’s friend or you were a hockey player.

            Simple. People went into boxes, and in their boxes they stayed.

            Apparently Keith hadn’t liked his particular box, broke out, and was now standing in front of Lance at nine p.m. on a Thursday in an abandoned rink with Hayley Kiyoko playing in the background. His hair was sticking up in every direction and he was in that ragged old hoodie and sweatpants. Lance could see the end of a hockey stick jutting out from above his shoulder.

            It took a few beats of silence before Lance was able to answer Keith’s simple greeting, “Is this going to be a thing now? You just showing up like you own the place?”

            “I do have a key,” Keith held up the keyring just like he had before, jiggling it once for emphasis.

            The thing was, Lance had had to grovel for a key to the rink. He had been here since he was three and wobbling along with an overturned five-gallon bucket to keep him upright on the ice. He had known Allura and her dad and had been at the funeral. A good chunk of the banners that were hanging up on the walls hailing national titles and trophies had his name on them.

            This was his place. He had grown up here. He had made his best friends here. Laughed here, cried here. There was a blood stain on the concrete floor of the back room from the broken skin he had incurred when he had gotten these skates and worked too hard on them during the break in period.

            Allura and Coran had agreed to give him the key because he was almost eighteen and they wanted him to choreograph the Christmas pageant. In return they had also agreed that he could get the time after hours on the ice to practice since he would be finally moving up into the senior levels this year.

            Putting the key on the loop next to his car and house key was the best damn day of Lance’s life.

            And now this hockey player kept busting through the door and ruining the peace that came with a completely empty rink. And he had a key? What the fuck, seriously.

            “Look,” Keith shoved his hand through the tangled mess that was his hideous mullet and seemed to be avoiding eye contact at all costs.

            Good.

            “Look,” he repeated, “can we just share the ice tonight? Our first game is tomorrow and-”

            Lance barked out a laugh, “You really, honest to god think I’m sharing my private ice. With you?” He spat out the last word. Lance had pondered and thought on Pidge’s words but sharing the ice was too much too fast.

            “God,” Keith growled, frustration showing, “are you always this much of an ass?”

            “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lance said while gritting his teeth in return, “how would you like me to act towards you?” Keith gaped at him, clacking his teeth together twice before giving up on actually trying to form words. “Yeah,” Lance said, “exactly.”

            “Whatever,” Keith dropped his bag by the entrance and began to trudge back towards the locker rooms, baffling Lance.

            “Can you just, leave?” he asked, digging his nails into his arms where they were crossed.

            “Can you just let me get what I came for? From the locker rooms that belong to _my_ team?” Keith spoke as he walked, shoulders hunching and gaze down. Lance just threw his hands in the air in frustration before turning back to the ice to work.

            Keith left without saying another word to Lance. He just came out of the back with a tattered binder and picked up his bag. Lance wouldn’t admit to feeling badly at his reactions, at least not to anyone but himself. 

* * *

 

          “I fucking _hate_ you!” Pidge’s voice was pitched high, and if his alarm clock hadn’t woken him up, that scream sure would. Lance had no clue how the Holts managed to get here at five in the morning, but god bless them for taking that spot so he could roll in at six for his lesson time.

          “Well maybe if someone kept her arm locked, we both wouldn’t keep falling!” Matt rebutted, standing on the opposite side of the rink from his sister, arms crossed to match hers.

          “Twenty,” Allura spoke in her normal soft voice, eyes on her wristwatch.

          “Don’t throw your hips to the right!”

          “Don’t rely on me for your counterbalance!”

          Lance smiled at the bickering, a normal occurrence for the early morning sessions that involved under caffeinated Holts. When the two had begun their career as a pairs team, any little thing that went wrong would cause the two would blow up at one another and then refuse to work together to fix problems. Alfor had been so frustrated at trying to mediate that he had taken his watch off his arm, waved it in the air for both children to see and spoken in that low tone of confidence that he had been known for, “I will give you thirty seconds to say whatever you want to say, then we are going back to work with a positive attitude. Go.”

          And for some insane reason, it had worked. The two had screamed across the ice for thirty seconds and when Alfor had called time they both seemed to completely relax. The anger had fizzled out and that day they had gotten their throw double toe. Ever since, they had kept the thirty second rule as their problem-solving technique, so walking into the rink before school and hearing the two scream at one another was commonplace.

          “You’re a fucking asshole and your ponytail is-”

          “Time.”

          The two skated back together from their opposite sides and they began the entry into the new lift like they hadn’t just been shouting insults at each other. Lance began to lace up his boots as he watched Matt easily hoist his tiny sister into the air and she reached back to her skate. The lift ended with Matt supporting Pidge by just a hand on her hip before she flipped over her shoulder, miraculously landing on her skates with a huge smile and high fiving her brother.

          “Now what was that about my ponytail?” Matt asked, producing a giggle from Pidge as she gave it a solid yank from the back of his head.

          “It’s stupid just like you,” she answered with a fond smile.

          Just your typical Wednesday morning.

* * *

 

          On game days, butterflies typically made their home in Keith’s guts. Fluttering tendrils of anxiety and anticipation that curled around his organs and made his entire body positively thrum. It was excitement and nerves and a deep seeded want to perform at his peak.

          This year it wasn’t butterflies, it was hummingbirds. Wings beating between his ribs and fluttering under his skin, moving fast and flitting back and forth, back and forth. Shiro was a diplomatic leader of their team, always wanting decisions to be a group effort and as thought through as possible. That’s why the spot for captain was going to be a trial run. Keith was going to be acting captain today, Lotor for the next game. As much of a dick as he was, Lotor was a good player who knew what he was doing, and he spoke in such a way that people listened and followed without question. It was a solid competition.

          Keith didn’t have that sort of ease when he spoke. Until Shiro had come along as his coach, Keith was also known for not working well with others and just scoring on his own with no regard to actual teamwork. He hadn’t even known he wanted to captain a team until Shiro told him that he wanted Keith to captain his team, just as Shiro had. Then, Keith had found out that he wanted this, if not just to please Shiro and show him that all the mentoring and family had been worth it. That Keith wasn’t throwing these opportunities down the drain.

          So he was nervous, terribly so, as he pushed his way through the doors of the rink.

          The figure skaters were still on the ice, their time ending in just a few minutes so the ice could be resurfaced before the games started for the evening. Keith almost missed Lance on the ice because instead of his usual form fitting clothes he was in a puffy down jacket and had a scarf wound around his neck. A little girl who didn’t even reach his hip was standing next to him, looking up at him with absolute rapture in her small eyes.

          Keith couldn’t hear what Lance was saying over the sound of the music one of the other skaters was gliding along to, but he was motioning and his mouth was moving and the little girl was hanging on every word. When Lance finished talking the Zamboni was beginning to move its way onto the ice, the ginger guy with a mustache behind the wheel. The girl skated away from Lance and gathered speed before shooting her small leg back and jabbing her toe into the ice, defying the laws of physics that Keith knew to hold him to the earth and whipping her body around twice before landing easily back on the ice. When she realized she had landed the jump cleanly, she hopped up and down in excitement before launching herself at Lance’s legs, wrapping her tiny arms around his waist. Lance’s face lit up in delight and he ruffled her hair fondly. Keith found himself smiling before he realized it was what he was doing, the fondness radiating off of the ice and washing over him. The hummingbirds quieted down at the sight.

          Then Lotor showed up.

           “Keithy Keith,” his hand clamped down on Keith’s shoulder, just on the edge of being too tight. A warning. “You ready to be a captain for the first time today?”

          “Yeah,” Keith spoke with a tight voice, “I think I’ve done as much as I can do to prep, now we just have to show up.”

          “And show up we will, my friend,” Lotor squeezed his shoulder again, shoving Keith forward towards the locker rooms with a little more force than was absolutely necessary. Keith followed him to start getting his gear on, the hummingbirds back in full force.

* * *

 

         “Okay guys,” Shiro was gathered with them at the boards, all of the players on the ice breathing heavily, sweat gathering on their brows, “We have enough time to score. We can break this tie before time,” Shiro’s eyes met Keith’s through the spaces in his facemask and Keith could tell he was sending all of his brotherly confidence towards Keith in that moment, “Keith? What’s the play?”

          Keith took a breath, keeping it in for a moment before reciting what he had reviewed at the table with Shiro this morning, brushing up on things to give him this kind of surefire confidence in leading his team. When he was done the only person who didn’t look satisfied with his explanation and decision was Lotor. Shocker.

          When the timer buzzed the game back into play, Keith took the puck and worked it, finding Regris in the grouping of red and purple jerseys and shooting the puck off towards him, a perfect play. Except for Lotor powering forward, stealing the shot and making a dash for the goal.

          Red hot anger flooded into Keith’s body, rushing down his veins and into his fingers and toes. One of the players from the opposing team slammed into Lotor’s shoulder and stole the puck. Regris tried to make a play, improvising, but it didn’t work. The other team scored and began celebrating as Keith threw himself in Lotor’s direction and didn’t stop until he had the other man’s shoulder pads fisted in his hands.

          “What. The. Fuck.” Keith spit the words through clenched teeth. Lotor only gave him a sly smirk in return.

          “I saw an opening and took it, sue me,” His tone was flippant and Keith wanted to start a fight but buried the urge to punch.

           Over Lotor’s shoulder, Keith could see Shiro and he just shook his head once, eyes a flurry of emotions that he wasn’t letting show on his face. _Not the time,_ he seemed to be transmitting to Keith. Not in front of a crowd, not with people around. Keith let go of his teammate and went to get off the ice. He hoped Lotor got the message that this wasn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos honestly make writing this so much easier, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	7. Chapter 7

          “I may be dead,” was Matt’s only greeting when Lance showed up at the Holt’s house for an intensive pre-finals study session with Pidge. Home schooling meant Lance had some freedoms in when he did his work, but the freedoms did not extend towards no finals. “Strike that,” Matt continued from the living room floor, hair splayed around his face in a halo, “I am dead.”

            “Well,” Lance flopped himself onto the familiar paisley couch and started pulling out his calculus book, “maybe if you didn’t wait until Coran’s conditioning day to do power pulls, you wouldn’t get sore afterwards.”

            “Oh no,” Pidge emerged from the kitchen, still in her short black skirt and green striped legwarmers from the rink, “I think the staircase jumps did him in this time.”

            “My axel better reach the _roof_ now,” Matt groaned, “I can’t feel my feet. Are they still there?”

            Pidge kicked her brother’s foot on her way past to curl up next to Lance, “Yup, still attached to your body.”

            “That’s good, since we’re two weeks out from our first competition,” Lance reminded them, leaning his head back into the couch cushions.

            “And you’re three out from the first of the Grand Prix,” Pidge countered, starting to rifle through Lance’s papers.

            “Don’t remind me, I’ll have a panic attack over choreo.”

            “You’ll be fine,” Pidge reassured in her know it all voice. Somehow, that always worked in calming Lance down. Because Pidge was the best.

            The doorbell rang and Matt yelled something that was coherent to the other side of the door but somehow not to Lance and Hunk bustled in, Ryan and Ina at his back.

            “Heyyyyyyyyyy!” Hunk drew out the word and collapsed onto the couch next to Pidge, “New socks?” he asked, picking a piece of black lint off the hem of one of the thigh highs Pidge had doctored into her newest leg warmers.

            “Yep,” she popped the p on the end, keeping her eyes on Lance’s textbook and not the boy next to her. Lance looked over her shoulder at Kinkade and he just shook his head in defeat. They had been trying to nudge Pidge and Hunk into one another for months, after Hunk had said something about how pretty Pidge had been at their end of season banquet last year, but neither of them seemed to be able to make the final leap. Hunk had graduated with Matt even though he was just a year older than Pidge. Pidge would have graduated or gotten her GED by now, too, if her mother wasn’t so insistent on her daughter doing some form of normal school.

            Most athletes at their level – like Lance – homeschooled to make up for the intense travel schedule that top level competitors faced. Colleen would have none of Pidge’s insistence that she needed to as well. Her mother’s argument was that Pidge wouldn’t have any friends outside of the rink. Which Lance wouldn’t argue, as the entirety of his friend group was currently in this living room.

            “I brought you a new recipe,” Hunk said after a few beats of silence in which Pidge didn’t continue the conversation. He produced a clear container from his backpack and set it on the coffee table. “Protein bites, no almonds this time,” Hunk shot a look over at Lance with a smile, “I switched them out for cashew butter and coconut flakes.”

            Hunk was always spoiling them like this. In the less intense competition season his foods were less health oriented, but being a friend of athletes for so long had made him an expert in making high protein and nutrient rich snacks for these study dates. He was a gem and a half.

            “These are really good,” Lance muttered through a mouthful, shoving a few more of the bite sized balls into his mouth.

            “Feed me,” Matt said still in his supine position, “I still cannot move.” Ina unceremoniously picked one of the bites up and tossed it at Matt’s face. Ryan and Lance snorted, the later with flecks of coconut running down his chin.

            Pidge called the room to attention then, and all hands were on deck to help Lance get ready for finals and Ryan and Ina prepped for their regular school midterms. Even though they were under mountains of books and papers and the looming dread of a possible bad grade was imminent, Lance hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. He had been too wrapped up in choreography for himself and the Christmas show, too focused on hockey players. He let the calming presence of his people surround him and remind him of who he was and what he loved, and right now he loved his friends, the warmth in the Holt’s living room, and the taste of coconut on his tongue.

* * *

 

            Vindictive wasn’t Keith’s favorite word, but the look on Lance’s face was worth this one slip of his ‘trying to be a better person’ act in a moment of utter rebuttal. Making a copy of Shiro’s key and getting here before he knew Lance would be had been a small idea formed in the back of his mind when he was trying to figure out how to not piss people off. But then he had done a total one eighty and now they were here, with Lance’s eyes wide and shock clearly written on his face. It was even more worth the small amount of guilt that he felt in this moment for pulling a stunt like this - as small as it was. He let the sly smile that had been tugging at his lips all night crack into a full grin.

            “I-you…” Lance was sputtering, a flush rising high in his cheekbones and anger flashing in his eyes, “What are you even?”

            “I think the term for what I am currently doing,” Keith let himself drift back on his skates, stick lazily scraping against the ice, “is skating. It’s what one typically does at an ice rink.”

            “What the _fuck,_ man?” Lance explodes forward then, leaning over the boards and looking for all intents and purposes like he was going to launch his stupidly long body over them even though he didn’t have any skates on. “I worked my ass off, I have bled and lived here for fifteen fucking years and you just fucking show up!” Lance’s eyes were getting glassy, palpable anger living in them. “How do you think that makes me feel?”

            It was now Keith’s turn to sputter.

            “Exactly. I want to be the best, I had to grovel and barter for this time on the ice,” Lance’s fingers were gripping the blue lip of the boards tightly, knuckles white, “why do you think it’s your god given right to be here?”

            Keith shrugged, that little gremlin of guilt clawing down his ribcage in embarrassment, “Why can’t we just share the ice?” He asked, voice losing some of the bravado it had held just moments earlier.

            “Because I’ll lop your head off in a camel spin and you’ll tear it to pieces! I’ll be on my ass more than on my skates.” Lance said this as fact, as if it was common knowledge and there was no arguing it.

            “Look,” Keith swept his arms wide to encompass the ice, “is there one goddamned rut in this place?” Lance followed the movement of Keith’s arms, eyes scanning the ice in a practiced movement.

            Keith had been careful not to dig his blades in, however strong the temptation had been when he stepped out on the ice a half hour prior. The integrity was still there, even though there were some edges here and there, he hadn’t curved in and created the grooves he knew he was capable of in actual practices with Shiro breathing down his neck to be better, better, better.

            “That’s what I thought,” he said when Lance’s eyes finally returned to his face, “I need time alone on the ice too, I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.”

            “If you so much as cross my path when I go for a jump, I cannot be held responsible for slamming into you at high speeds.”

            “Don’t you watch hockey? I’m used to it.”

* * *

 

            It took them time to get into the rhythm of a dance around one another. At first it was… beyond difficult. Every time Lance went to gather speed around the short ends of the ice Keith would dart out across his path, causing Lance to pull up over his toe picks and growl.

            “Can you stop doing that!?” He growled one particular time as he tripped over his feet on the entry into a lutz.

            “You were on the other end of the ice, I’d be _well_ out of your way before you got to where I crossed your path.”

            “I can’t know what your plan on doing!”

            “Not hitting you is what I’m trying to accomplish!”

            “Fine!” Lance threw his hands in the air, growling at nothing because he was mad at the situation more than the person causing it. Surprisingly. “Since you need to be here so badly,” Lance went to his bag on the side of the ice and withdrew a black marker. He split the rink at the first third, one stark black line bisecting the white ice. “You get this end,” he pointed to the smaller area, “and I’ll take the other.”

            “Why am I stuck with the smaller end?” Keith crossed his arms and leveled Lance with a look that he had come to know as the beginnings of Keith’s stubborn streak.

            “Because I have choreography.”

            “I have drills.”

            “You can practice close range fighting or whatever.”

            “You could practice…” Keith’s voice faltered, fading off at the end and Lance saw his room for a final, killing blow.

            “Nothing, I need to get speed through quarters and still have enough time to get into jumps. This is my final stand.” To prove the point, Lance bent over and scrawled his name on his side of the black line.  
            “Your final stand is an expo marker? Really?” He didn’t hear it at first, but when Lance straightened back up he saw that Keith had meant those words to be taken with humor.

            “Better than any idea you have under that stupid haircut.”

            Keith sputtered at that, face contorting as Lance deposited the marker back into his bag and started to gain the speed he needed to actually get some work done on his triple triple combos. He didn’t notice it right away, but the rhythmic sound of hockey pucks hitting the sideboards somehow made a good soundtrack to work to.

* * *

 

            “Is my haircut stupid?” Keith was sitting with Shiro at the kitchen table, two cups of coffee in front of them and Adam at the stove monitoring the eggs. Keith pulled one of the ends of his hair towards his face, fiddling with the split ends he found there.

            “Is what you have considered a haircut?” Adam quipped, flipping an egg with a deft flick of a wrist.

“Drink your coffee, salty asshole,” Shiro told his husband with a smile over the rim of his own mug, and it was almost too cute for Keith to deal with this early in the morning. His attention turned back to Keith, Shiro asked, “Why are you asking?”

            “Dunno,” Keith tugged on another strand of hair, crossing his eyes in an attempt to see it better.

            “Do _you_ like your hair?”

            “Does it matter if it looks stupid to other people?”

            “No, because you like it. If you like it, what do other people matter?”

            “Also, you look like a hockey player,” Adam deposited two plates on the table in front of them then, collapsing into the chair between them and taking a long sip from his coffee mug. Suddenly Shiro was tugging on the tuft of silver that always fell into his eyes early in the mornings, pulling his eyebrows together in a mimic of Keith moments before.

            “What do I look like then?” Shiro asked, turning his stare onto Adam.

            “’Kashi? Do you really want me to answer that?”

            “No, I really don’t think so,” Shiro replied, and there was that smile. That smile that Shiro always had when Adam came into conversations that Keith was finally figuring out. Because he found that that smile was how he felt, deep in the pit of his stomach, when he walked into the rink in anticipation of Lance being on the ice.

Because that’s how whipped he was.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to *try* to post every Monday. I'm getting to the end of what I have pre-written so I need to set aside time to work on getting a good backlog of chapters ready for you guys again.  
> For anyone wondering why Lance would have an expo in his bag - most coaches keep them to draw patterns or mark out movements on the ice for skaters to see better, so they keep a few in their bags that they take onto the ice with them! (I keep a sharpie for my own use)  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I look forward to talking to you in the comments! :D


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